“And so, about this tomb of mine . . . “

“VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?

Nephews—sons mine … ah God, I know not! Well—

She, men would have to be your mother once,

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!

What’s done is done, and she is dead beside,

Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,

And as she died so must we die ourselves,

And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream.

Life, how and what is it?

As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,

Hours and long hours in the dead night,

I ask “Do I live, am I dead?”

Peace, peace seems all.

Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace;

And so, about this tomb of mine.

I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:

—Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;

Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner

South He graced his carrion with,

God curse the same!

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence

One sees the pulpit o’ the epistle-side,

And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,

And up into the very dome where live

The angels, and a sunbeam’s sure to lurk:

And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,

And ’neath my tabernacle take my rest,

With those nine columns round me, two and two,

The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands . . . “

The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed’s Church by Robert Browning (1812–1889)

Head-dibs